Chapter 44
It’s three a.m. in La Jolla, and I’m downstairs with my bags. Only for Yolanda would I be up this early. Not that I slept much anyway, because I was so furious and heartsick over the results of last night’s show.
My cell rings. Great, Yolanda! It’s later in Puerto Rico.
I pull my phone from my pocket.
Damn. It’s not her.
We’d spoken for a few minutes after the show, but it hadn’t been enough. I want to make her being eliminated okay. I want to… Hell, I miss her. I wish I’d been there for her when she… No, she didn’t lose. Not to me. Fuck anyone who didn’t vote for her.
I answer my cell. “Hey, Parker.”
“We have an issue. A big one.”
I freeze. Parker is not prone to exaggeration. “Go on.”
“Someone purposefully tampered with the result of last night’s show.”
Shit. I start pacing. She’s right this is big. “How?”
Stone comes down the stairs. He’s dressed and carrying a bag, his mouth a firm line of disappointment.
What the hell? I know why I’m up, but him?
He says, “We need to talk. Now.”
My molars grind together. I give him a one-sec finger.
He shakes his head.
What the hell is going on?
“Parker,” I say and decide it’s easiest to get them on the same page, “I’m going to put you on speaker so Stone can get in on this.”
Stone walks over with a non-too-pleased grimace on his face, but once I put the call on speaker, he, ever the professional, says, “Stone here.”
“Stone, I was just explaining to Easton that there’s been a mistake in the tally of the voting for last night’s show.”
“I thought your system was foolproof,” he says with a growl that’s unusual for him.
My heart’s steady bump, bump accelerates enough that a tinge of wariness tightens my muscles. Something is very wrong.
“It is. Someone replaced the sealed envelope announcing the actual winner with a fake one.”
What the fuck? “No one caught that?”
The answer to that is obvious, so she ignores my question and keeps going. “I was suspicious about last night’s tally, so I ran the numbers again late last night.”
Stone’s eyebrows go up. He says what I’m thinking, “Yolanda didn’t lose.”
“She didn’t. Kay Lee did. I’ve already contacted her and let her know—obviously she was none too pleased, even mentioned a lawsuit. I haven’t been able to reach Yolanda to tell her.”
“Did you try Mateo?” I ask, brushing a hand down across my jaw.
“He’s here at the villa this morning, dismantling the aerial rig. He tried to call and text her. He even reached out to his aunt and cousin. No luck. He said she likely slept in. He’s finishing up here then heading back to?—”
“Parker,” Stone’s raised voice cuts her off as thoroughly as a slap to the face. “It’s of utmost importance that you confirm where Yolanda is. I need you to go to her apartment, knock on her door, break in if she doesn’t answer. Do you understand me?”
Cold chills wash down my body. “What’s going on?”
“Exactly my thought,” Parker says. “What?”
“Right fucking now,” Stone says, and since he rarely, if ever, talks to anyone that way, my stomach knots into a fist of panic.
Parker must panic, too, because a strangled, “I’ll grab Mateo and we’ll head over there now,” whispers through the line.
“Hurry.” Stone hangs up, then turns to me.
Every hair on my body raises in alarm. My fists ball tightly at my sides. My jaw tightens with what feels like ten-thousand pounds of pressure. “Tell me,” I grind out.
“You’re going to want to be on the move when you hear this. Grab your bag, we’ll talk in the car on the way to the airport.”
“Our flight isn’t for three hours.”
He looks me dead in the eyes. “I just got us a private one.”
For a beat, I can’t breathe. Move. I need to move.
As if my hand belongs to someone else, I grab the handle of my bag and we make our way outside. It’s still dark and there’s a chill in the air.
Heart hammering, I slip into the passenger seat of Stone’s Ferrari, get a nose full of leather and cologne, then toss my bag into the back seat. “Fucking tell me.”
Jaw tight, he revs the engine with a growl, then reverses out of my driveway with a squeal of wheels. We rocket down the street. I’m shoved back in my seat when he says, “I put in a request for confirmation on house arrest.”
I know only one person under house arrest, and though I don’t know what this confirmation entails, I can guess. A cluster of heat and anger presses into my throat. I fist my hands. “You asked to have it confirmed that Cecily was where she’s supposed to be?”
“I did. Twice. Both times it came back that her ankle monitor indicated that she was.”
“But there’s more to this story?”
“Call it my gut instinct, call it logic, call it my cynical nature, but I hired a PI to confirm.”
Tightness like a five-hundred-pound barbell perched on my chest makes it hard to breathe. “She wasn’t there.”
“No. She wasn’t.”
“How?”
“Each state has an agency that they put in charge of home monitoring. From what the PI told me, it so happens the one used in Little View, Texas was run and started by a former Houston police officer, Brian Goodman, who used to partner with Cecily’s dad.”
“Bert used to work for the police?”
“Twenty years ago. He quit before he could be fired for taking bribes. The department swept it under the rug. That’s all according to the PI. He also said that Bert likely saved Brian from facing a similar charge.”
It all falls into place. “Cecily manipulated the legal system by using her father’s cancer to get herself moved to a district where she’d be monitored by a man with deep ties, even a life debt, to her father.”
“Yes. A man who owed Bert enough that he fabricated his meetings with Cecily.”
“Have you alerted the police? Maybe this bastard can tell us where Cecily went.”
“I did. They went to Brian’s house this morning. It appears he’s skipped town. He and Cecily are missing. They found her father wearing Cecily’s monitor. He likely passed sometime yesterday.”
The sharp noose of panic bites firmly around my neck. Hands shaking, I call Yolanda. It rings. I stare at the screen, willing her to pick up. There’s a click. You’ve reached the voicemail of Yolanda Vasquez…
I exhale sharply, drowning out the rest of her words. Seething anger twists my stomach. If anyone hurts her…
The voicemail beeps. “Call me the moment you get this.” I swallow. “Please.” I hang up. “Have you thought of the fact that Brian will have all sorts of contacts—legal and illegal—that he can use to help Cecily with whatever she’s planning?”
And it likely has something to do with the show and Yolanda.
“Which is why we’re on the move.”
I’m coming, baby.Fuck.
My phone buzzes in my hand. My heart jumps. Damn it. Not Yolanda. Not Parker. “Fucking Paul.” I send the call to voicemail.
A moment later, Stone’s cell rings through his car speakers. “It might be related to this,” he says.
I can’t imagine how, but I nod and Stone picks up. “Paul, Stone and Easton here. We’re on our way to the airport. Is this an emergency?”
“I received your email begging out of today’s meetings. I need you stop the car and turn around.”
Stone and I share a look. I bite my tongue, because growling, “Fucking fuck-you,” at Paul isn’t going to help this situation.
“Why?” Stone asks.
“I’ve called for a vote from the board today on Easton’s continued role as head of FTW.”
“Why? The show isn’t over.” I say, while googling how fast a private plane to Puerto Rico from Los Angeles takes. Too fucking long.
“It’s my opinion that we can no longer wait on you to revive your image. All the good press in the world won’t solve the issue of you letting a show designed to improve your reputation be a funnel of wealth for your girlfriend’s hotel, her brother’s fitness equipment, and now her continued appearance on the show.”
“Paul,” Stone says. “What are you getting at?”
“Parker notified me this morning that she is reversing the results of last night’s show to put Yolanda back on. That’s outrageous. The public won’t stand for it. You obviously have an issue with drawing clear boundaries when it comes to your work, the money at FTW, and the women in your life.”
I open my mouth to speak, but Stone speaks first. “Paul,” Stone says with a dry tone that I know from experience indicates he is about to lose his shit. “Accusations of this type are not only skirting defamation; they are surpassing it. You should rethink misconstruing and misstating Easton’s actions. It’s a provocation you don’t want to take.”
“That, of course, is your position, but the board has enough information to move forward with the vote. Of course, we’re giving Easton one chance to plead his case before we vote. You have a few hours to prepare your plea. We’ll begin promptly at eight.”
Stone and I share another look. As one, we turn back to where Paul’s name appears, along with his photo, on half the screen in the dash. The other half has apps and a rolling map of La Jolla.
“My plea is this,” I growl. “Kiss my ass.”
“And fucking fuck you,” Stone says. He hangs up, guns the engine, and we rocket toward the private airport.